


The Moment

by sml293



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, M/M, My First Fanfic, Psychopath Dean, Serial Killers, skeptical cas, starts in childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sml293/pseuds/sml293
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one could understand why Castiel and Dean were best friends. They were complete opposites. Castiel was nervous and uninterested in girls; Dean was a ladies' man. Castiel was awkward and quiet; Dean was out going and an athlete. Castiel was fascinated by Dean–and Dean was fascinated by death. Then one day Dean asked: “You ever killed anything?” And from that moment on, the two were bound together in a game to terrifying to imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ever Killed Anything?

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is inspired (and written after) the Dean Koontz novel "The Voice of the Night". I will be making changes as the story goes on. I do not own Supernatural or the plot of this fanfiction. This is only for fun and for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of others. 
> 
> Anyway! Let me know if you guys want more. It's a pretty fun story, and I'd love to continue to share it with you guys.

“You ever killed anything?” Dean asked.

Castiel frowned. “Like what?”

The two boys were sitting at a rotting wood picnic table at the north end of town. A field lay beyond.

“Anything,” Dean said. “You ever killed anything at all?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel said.

Far out on the rock-speckled field, a few children ran playing a game of kiddie soccer as their parents watched on. Many of the toddlers paid no attention to the ball that barely moved from the middle of field.

“You must’ve killed somethin’,” Dean said impatiently. “What about bugs?

Castiel shrugged. “Sure Mosquitoes. Ants. Flies. So what?”

“How’d you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Killing ‘em.”

Castiel stared at him, finally shook his head. “Dean, sometimes you’re pretty weird.”

Dean grinned.

“You like killing bugs?” Castiel asked uneasily.

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“It’s real awesome.”

Dean hardly used any other word but awesome when he though anything was fun, or if anything thrilled him.

“What’s to like?” Castiel asked.

“The way they squish.”

“Gross.”

“Ever pull the legs off a praying mantis and watch it try to walk?” Dean asked.

“Weird. Really weird.”

Dean turned to the insistently crashing toddlers and stood up defiantly with his hands on his hips, as if he were challenging something. It was a natural pose for him; he was a born fighter.

Castiel was fourteen years old, the same age as Dean, and he never challenged anything or anyone. He rolled with life, floated where it took him, offering no resistance. Long ago he had learned that resistance caused pain.

Castiel sat on the edge of the picnic table, feet in a patch of dead grass. He looked up admiringly at Dean.

Without turning to Castiel, Dean said, “Ever kill anything bigger than bugs?”

“No.”

“I did.”

“Yeah?”

“Lots of times.”

“What’d you kill?” Castiel asked.

“Mice.”

“Hey, “ Castiel said, suddenly remembering, “my dad killed a bat once.”

Dean looked down at him. “When was that?”

“Couple of years ago, before we moved. My mom and dad were still together then. We had a house in Pontiac.”

“That where he killed the bat?”

“Yeah. Must have been some of them living in the attic. One of them got into my parents’ bedroom. It happened at night. I woke up and heard my mom screaming.”

“She was really scared, huh?”

“Terrified.”

“I sure wish I’d seen that.”

“I ran down the hall to see what was wrong, and this bat was swooping around their room.”

“Was she naked?”

Castiel blinked. “Who?”

“Your mother.”

“Of course not.”

“I thought maybe she slept naked and you saw her.”

“No,” Castiel said. He could feel his face turning red.

“She wearing a nightie?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?”

“I don’t remember,” Castiel said uneasily.

“If I was the one who saw her,” Dean said, “I’d sure as hell remember.”

“Well, I guess she was wearing a nightie,” Castiel said. “Yeah I remember now.”

Actually, he couldn’t recall whether she had been wearing pajamas or a fur coat, and he didn’t understand why it mattered to Dean.

“Could you see through it?” Dean asked.

“See through what?”

“For Christ’s sake, Cas! Could you see through her nightie?”

“Why would I want to?”

“Are you a _moron?_ ”

“Why would I want to stand around gaping at my own mom?”

“She’s hot, that’s why.”

“You have to be kidding!”

“Nice tits.”

“Dean, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Terrific legs.”

“How would you know?”

“Saw her in a swimsuit,” Dean said. “She’s a fox.”

“She’s a what?”

“She’s sexy, Cas.”

“She’s my _mother!_ ”

“So what?”

“Sometimes I wonder about you, Dean.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Me? Jeez.”

“Hopeless.”

“I thought we were talking about the bat.”

“So what happened to the bat?”

“My dad got a broom and knocked it out of the air. He kept hitting it until it stopped squealing. Boy you should have heard it squeal.” Castiel shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Blood?”

“Huh?”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

“No.”

Dean looked to the field again. He didn’t seem impressed by the story of the bat.

The warm breeze of summer stirred Dean’s hair. He had the kind of thick sandy brown hair and the wholesome freckled face that you saw in television commercials. He was a sturdy boy, strong for his age, a good athlete.

Castiel wished he looked like Dean.

Someday, when I’m rich, Castiel thought, I’ll walk into a plastic surgeon’s office with maybe a million bucks in cash and a picture of Dean. I’ll get myself totally remade. Totally transformed. The surgeon will change my dark hair to light brown. He’ll say, _Don’t want this thin pale face anymore, do you? Can’t blame you. Who would want it? Let’s make it handsome._ He’ll take care of my ears too. They won’t be so weird when he’s done. And he’ll fix these damned eyes. I won’t have to squint to see anymore. And he’ll say, _Want me to add a bunch of muscles to your chest and arms and legs? No problem. Easy as pie._ And then I won’t just look like Dean; I’ll be as strong as Dean, too, and I’ll be able to run as fast as Dean, and I won’t be afraid of anything, not anything in the world. Yeah. But I better go into that office with _two_ million bucks.

Still studying the children playing in the field, Dean said, “Killed bigger things, too.”

“Bigger than mice?”

“Sure.”

“Like what?”

“A cat.”

“You killed a cat?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

“Why’d you do that?”

“I was bored.”

“That’s no reason.”

“It was just something to do.”

“Jeez.”

Dean turned away from the children.

“What bull,” Castiel said trying to sound as tough as Dean.

Dean hunkered in front of Castiel, locked eyes with him. “It was real awesome, really terrific.”

“Awesome? Fun? Why would killing a cat be fun?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ it be fun?” Dean asked.

Castiel was skeptical. “How’d you kill it?”

“First I put it in a cage.”

“What kind of cage?”

“A big old birdcage, about three feet square.”

“Where’d you get a thing like that?”

“It was in our basement. A long time ago, Ellen owned a parrot. When it died she didn’t get a new bird, but she didn’t throw away the cage either.”

“Was it your cat?”

“Nah. Belonged to some people down the street.”

“What was its name?”

Dean shrugged.

“If there’d really been a cat, you’d remember its name,” Castiel said.

“Fluffy. Its name was Fluffy.”

“Sounds likely.”

“It’s true. I put it in a cage and worked on it with Ellen’s knitting needles.”

“Worked on it?”

“I poked at it through the bars. Christ, you should have heard it!” Dean grinned.

“No thanks.”

“That was one damned mad cat. It spat and screamed and tried to claw me.”

“So you killed it with the knitting needles.”

“Nah. The needles just made it angry.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Later I got a long, two-pronged meat fork from the kitchen and killed it with that.”

“Where were Bobby and Ellen during all this?”

“Both of them at work. I buried the cat and cleaned up all the blood before they got home."

Castiel shook his head and sighed. “What a great big lie.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“You never killed any cat.”

“Why would I make up a story like that?”

“You’re trying to see if you can gross me out. You’re trying to make me sick.”

Dean grinned wider. “Are you sick?”

“Of course not.”

“You look kinda pale.”

“You can’t make me sick because I know it didn’t happen. There wasn’t any cat.”

Dean’s eyes were sharp and demanding. Castiem imagined he could feel them probing like the points of that meat fork.

“How long have you known me?” Dean asked.

“Since the day after Mom and I moved here.”

“How long’s that?”

“You know. Since the first of June. A month.”

“In all that time, have I ever lied to you? No. Because you’re my friend. I wouldn’t lie to a friend.”

“You’re not lying exactly. Just sort of playing a game.”

“I don’t like games,” Dean said.

“But you joke around a lot.”

“I’m not joking now.”

“Sure you are. You’re setting me up. As soon as I say I believe about the cat, you’ll laugh at me. I won’t fall for it.”

“Well,” Dean said, “I tried.”

“Hah! You _were_ setting me up!”

“If that’s what you want to think, it’s okay with me.”

Dean walked away. He stopped twenty feel from Castiel and faced the field again. He stared at the hazy horizon as if he were in a trance.

“Dean? You _were_ joking about the cat, weren’t you?”

Dean turned, stared at him coolly for a moment, then grinned.

Castiel grinned, too. “Yeah. I knew it. You were trying to make a fool out of me.”


	2. Just Around the Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter chapter, and I know it's not super exciting. The next chapter will be longer and it will drive the story along better. 
> 
> Again, I don't own any of this.

Castiel stretched out on his back, closed his eyes and roasted for a while in the sun.  
He couldn’t stop thinking about the cat. He tried to conjure up pleasant images, but each of them faded and was replaced by a vision of a bloody cat in a birdcage. Its eyes were open, dead yet watchful eyes. He was certain the cat was waiting for him to get too close waiting for a chance to strike out with razor-sharp claws.  
Something bumped his foot.  
He sat up, startled.  
Dean stared down at him. “What time is it?”  
Castiel blinked, looked at his wristwatch. “Almost one o’clock.”  
“Come on. Get up.”  
“Where we going?”  
“Ellen works afternoons at the restaurant,” Dean said. “We’ve got my house to ourselves.”  
“What’s to do at your place?”  
“There’s something I want to show you.”  
Castiel stood and brushed sandy soil from his jeans. “Gonna show me where you buried the cat?”  
“I thought you didn’t believe in the cat.”  
“I don’t.”  
“Then forget it. I want to show you the trains.”  
“What trains?”  
“You’ll see. It’s real awesome.”  
“Race into town?” Castiel asked.  
“Sure.”  
“Go!” Castiel shouted.  
As usual, Dean reached his bicycle first. He was fifty yards away, racing into the wind, before Castiel touched foot to pedal.  
Cars, vans, campers, and lumbering motor homes jostled for position on the two-lane blacktop. Castiel and Dean rode on the oiled berm.  
Most of the year, this stretch of road carried very little traffic. Everyone but local residents used the interstate that bypassed the fishing lake the boys hung out by.  
During fishing season the area by the lake was crowded with campers that drove too fast and recklessly. They seemed to be pursued by demons. They were all so frantic, in a great hurry to relax, relax, relax.  
Castiel coasted down the last hill, into the outskirts of Lawrence. The wind buffed his face, ruffled his hair, and blew the automobile exhaust fumes away from him.  
He couldn’t suppress a grin. His spirits were higher than they had been in a long, long time.  
He had a lot to be happy about. Two more months of bright summer sun lay ahead of him, two months of freedom before school began. And with his father gone, he no longer dreaded going home each day.  
His parents’ divorce still disturbed him. But a broken marriage was better than the loud and bitter arguments that for several years had been a nightly ritual.  
Sometimes, in his dreams, Castiel could still hear the shouted accusations, the uncharacteristically foul language that his mother used in the heat of a fight, the inevitable sound of his father striking her, and then the weeping. No matter how warm his bedroom, he was always freezing when he woke from these nightmares—cold, shivering, yet drenched in sweat.  
He did not feel close to his mother, but life with her was far more enjoyable than life with his father would have been. His mother didn’t share or even understand his interests—science fiction, horror comics, monster movies—but she never forbade him to pursue them, which his father had tried to do.  
However, the most important change in recent months, the thing that made him happiest, had nothing to do with his parents. It was Dean Winchester. For the first time in his life, Castiel had a friend.  
He was too shy to make friends easily. He waited for other kids to come to him, even though he realized they weren’t likely to be interested in a thin awkward, myopic, bookish boy who didn’t mix well or enjoy sports or watch a lot of television.  
Dean Winchester was self-confident, outgoing, and popular. Castiel admired and envied him. Nearly any boy in town would have been proud to be Dean’s best friend. For reasons that Castiel could not grasp, Dean had chosen him. Going places with someone like Dean, confiding in someone like Dean, having someone like Dean confide in him—these were new experiences for Castiel he felt as if he were a pitiful pauper who had miraculously fallen into favor with a great prince.  
Castiel was afraid that it would end as abruptly as it had begun.  
That thought made his heart race. In an instant his mouth went dry.  
Before he’d met Dean, loneliness was all he had ever known; therefore, it had been endurable. Now that he had experience comradeship, however, a return to loneliness would be painful, devastating.  
Castiel reached the bottom of the long hill.  
One block ahead, Dean turned right at the corner.  
Suddenly Castiel thought the other boy might duck out on him, disappear down an alleyway, and hide from him forever. It was a crazy thought, but he couldn’t shake it.  
He leaned forward, into the handlebars. Wait for me, Dean. Please wait! He pedaled frantically, trying to catch up.  
When he rounded the corner, he was relieved to see that his friend had not vanished. In fact, Dean had slowed down; he glanced back. Castiel waved. They were only thirty yards apart. They weren’t really racing anymore because they both knew who would win.  
Dean turned left, into a narrow residential street that was flanked by trees. Castiel followed through the feathery shadows that were cast by the wind stirred branches.  
The conversation he’d had with Dean on the hill now echoed through Castiel’s mind:  
You killed a cat?  
That’s what I said, didn’t I?  
Why’d you do that?  
I was bored.  
At least a dozen times during the past week, Castiel had sensed that Dean was testing him. He felt certain the gruesome story about the cat was just the latest test, but he couldn’t imagine what Dean had wanted him to say or do. Had he passed or failed?  
Although he didn’t know what answers were expected of him, he knew instinctively why he was being tested. Dean possessed a wonderful—or perhaps terrible—secret that was eager to share, but he wanted to be certain that Castiel was worthy of it.  
Dean had never spoken of a secret, not one word, but it was in his eyes. Castiel could see it, the vague shape of it, but not the details, and he wondered what it might be.


End file.
